MEDEX
by prancing queen
Summary: In 2023 the British government privatized the National Health Service. By 2025 it is realized that cancer and worldwide organ failure is the long overdue epidemic the world has been waiting for. From these ashes MEDEX is born. A medical company that quickly becomes a global giant, at its helm; Dean Winchester. They offer a miracle drug that can have you cancer free in a single week


Summary: In 2023 the British government privatized the National Health Service. By 2025 it is realized that cancer and worldwide organ failure is the long overdue epidemic the world has been waiting for. From these ashes MEDEX is born. A medical company that quickly becomes a global giant, at its helm; Dean Winchester. They offer a miracle drug that can have you cancer free in a single week. But, this medicine comes at a price. Castiel Novak is catapulted into MEDEX's dark, hidden world of assassinations and deceit and in this struggle to do what is right versus what's needed to be done, he may just lose himself along the way...

The sound of heavy coughing is the music to which I awaken. I squeeze my eyes shut and fold the thin, lumpy pillow over my ears so I don't have to hear it. So I don't have to face the fact that every day she's getting worse and I can't do anything to help her. Hell, I can't even afford to give her painkillers and at least make her comfortable. Guilt claws at me as I try, and fail, to go back to sleep. Instead her coughing continues, punctuated every now and then by a whimper or groan of pain. I can hear her try to smother it, attempting to quiet herself so as not to wake me, but she does. Every time she has an episode like this it wakes me. She never complains, even as she wastes away or her eyes betray her as they well up from her pain, she always keeps smiling, squeezing my fingers comfortingly as she assures me everything will be okay. As if I was the one dying. Not her. All the while I could do nothing but sit and watch helplessly as my mother slowly died before my very eyes. She shouldn't have to. That's the only thing I can think. If it wasn't for MEDEX she would live. This is MEDEX's fault.

Lung cancer. That's what she's got. In the early 21st century they could only treat it by poisoning themselves, or exposing their bodies to harmful radiation. Stupid, but it was the best they could do right? But back then, you could get treated for free. Had access to these things through something they had called the National Health Service or NHS. It hardly seems possible. It's a mocking utopia, and God how I would give for it to be a reality, I'd give anything for those treatments, if only she'd get better. But this is all completely unlike today of course. Nowadays, the treatment is much simpler, and safer. A single course of tablets and you could be entirely cancer free in a week. I'm not sure exactly what they put in it, or how it works, I just know that it does. That's all that matters. Of course, if this NHS were still in place now, we could simply snap our fingers and have her treatment within the hour. But we don't have an NHS. In 2023 it had been sold off through something they had called 'privatisation'. The government was slowly becoming bankrupt and sold off sections to acquire more funds. Great at the time, but by the time they'd realised the implications for us tax paying citizens, they'd sold it all. Among the many, eager companies to dive at the health service was MEDEX. They were a small company, but they grew. Multiplied. Like a bacteria you can't detect till it's too late. They bought out the other medical giants, and eventually became renowned world over for their outstanding medical care. But all this came at a price.

By 2025, cancer and organ failure had become the worldwide epidemic the WHO (World Health Organization) had been looking for. However, by the time they realized this, it was already too late. The world looked to MEDEX, who ramped their prices on everything. From painkillers and antibiotics to new organs and the miracle drug which would cure your cancer in a single week. A lot of people couldn't afford their astronomical prices, so many died. But those who could only just get access to treatment and fell behind in paying the medical bill often mysteriously vanished only months after the treatment. Never to be seen again.

The now dwindling government turned a blind eye to the goings on and eventually the people revolted. Only to be stamped on ninety days later by a vengeful MEDEX. The government joined forces with the company, Thus giving them the money and power they so desired. They became a global giant, and some suffer from its injustices more than others.

I can still hear her coughing, so finally I throw the thin, grey sheets to one side and unfold the pillow, putting it back in its proper place. A weary sigh escapes my lips as I rub a hand over my face and swing my feet over the bed. The floor is cold, but I've gradually grown accustomed to it, and now its bite only serves to help drag me out of my sleepy shell. As I make my way towards her room I stretch, pausing just outside her door as her coughing subsides and I can hear her rasping breath. Steeling myself for the worst, I twist the little brass doorknob and step inside the room.

She's thinner. A lot thinner. As I make my way across the sun bleached carpet to her side, my sharp eyes pick out her sunken eyes and hollow cheeks flushed from the strain of coughing. I perch on the very edge of the bed, the springs squealing in protest at the added weight. She looks at me, her piercing blue eyes searching my own before she finally spoke, reaching out to rest her tiny hand on my knee.

"You're worrying again, Castiel." Hee voice is remarkably strong. For a dying woman. I can't hold her gaze any longer and drop my head, instead examining her fingers which squeeze my knee gently.

"It's hard not to, mum." I say finally.

A slight headshake is her only response and my sharp eyes pick out a bloody smudge on her fingers. Horrified I flip her hand over. She snatches it away but not before I see the specks of blood on her palm from the coughing.

"Mum!" The shock and betrayal in that one word hung in the room for several moments and she sighs gently, the serenity broken by another fit of coughing. Instinctively I reach out and rub my hand in slow, steady circles on her back, murmuring quiet promises that it'll get better, things can't get much worse, all the while guilt tearing me apart. The same was said of my father and he deteriorated further, his pain increasing tenfold before he passed little over a year ago. The look of agony on his face as he died still to this day, haunts my nightmares. Based simply on his timeline, her rapid decline meant she had only weeks. A month at most.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes as a wave of despair crashes over me. I can't lose her. Not now. Not like this. "I'm sorry, I can't let you do this anymore. I've got to get you some medicine."

"No. You will do no such thing Castiel, so help me I would rather kill myself now." The sharpness in her tone startles me, and I blink up at her, falling silent. It's hard to argue with that.

She rests her hand on my shoulder and lowers her voice, till it's nothing more than a soothing murmur. "I'm sorry, Cas. I can't let you give up your life for mine. I've lived my life. You're only twenty three, yours is just beginning." I haven't the heart to tell her I'd turned twenty four the week prior.

I let her hand fall back to the mattress as I rise, keeping my back to her as I open the door once more. "I'm not a kid anymore. I can make my own decisions. I'm sorry." The door clicks shut behind me as it swings closed, saving me from her disappointed gaze.

My bare feet whisper against the threadbare carpet as I pad along the hallway and into the bathroom. I turn on the taps and splash my face and neck with cold water, my grey shirt darkening as it absorbs some of the water. After patting my face dry with the scratchy, threadbare towel hanging over the edge of the bath, I gaze at my own reflection. My hair is shoulder length and dark, the fringe just tickling my eyelashes. Usually it's swept back from my face and tied tightly in a black band, but at the moment it hangs loose. My eyes are the same piercing blue as my mother's, and my skin equally as pale. I inherited my fathers high cheekbones and slender fingers. Everyone says I look like my father, but I'm not so sure. I scratch absently at the faint traces of stubble coating my chin and turn away, lost in thought.

The price for one tablet alone is more than we both make in a year, and double that price on the black market. As well as this, you can never be certain of what it is you're purchasing. The trader can say it's a specific medication but sometimes even he won't know he's been duped. The other option is to break into one of the clinics and steal it. Not many get away with it, but there have been whispers of people who have succeeded.

I run my toe over a scraggly tuft of carpet, eyebrows knitted together as my head swirls with impossible ideas. Or rather, nearly impossible ideas, my conscience whispers, people have succeeded in breaking into the clinic. What's to say you'll fail?

My mother would disapprove tremendously. But the only thing worse than this theft, would be to let her die. In my view, to sit back and do nothing is murder.

And it's with that thought in mind that I found myself nervously awaiting sunset and the 11 o'clock curfew. Too anxious to eat, I flipped through news broadcasts at a hurried pace, my foot jiggling with pent up energy. Each channel told the same story in different voices and with a different face each time. Suicides had reached an all time high, shares in MEDEX had gone up, both in price and number of shares bought. The riots in the south had been squashed, those involved faced the noose. Sighing, I silenced their annoying chatter, watching the screen fade to black and crackle briefly with static before bouncing out of the tired leather armchair and making my way to the window and looking out over the city. Or rather, what was left of it. Where we lived was mostly rundown. The poorest of the poor lived here and it was a tough way of life I'd adapted much too quickly to for my mothers liking.

Mum told me London used to be pretty this time of year. Before everything went wrong of course. She said she'd watch the sun rise over the tall, glass buildings, reflecting the suns rays, the city illuminated in a soft golden light. I can almost imagine it, but the image always slips away after a few seconds. It's more like a myth to me now. London was always filled with a dark, clinging mist that strangled the light and warmth from everything. Painting the city in shades of black and grey. You can't even see the stars anymore. I remember them. They'd twinkle above us like the clear, shimmering jewels sewn onto a rich velvet cloth. My dad used to point them out to me when I was little. The mist blocked them out a few years later and I still feel their loss like it was yesterday.

I prepare her lunch, two slices of grainy toast and the last of the butter from the fridge. It isn't real butter of course. We haven't had that in years, it's a luxury only the elite can afford. When I take it to her, she sits up with a confident smile, that one gesture almost desperate in its message, it screamed, 'See? I'm okay. You don't need to do anything rash', but instead of changing my mind, it simply strengthens my resolve. We don't talk about our earlier spat. It's an unspoken rule in our home that once a disagreement has been had, we leave it and move on. Life's too short to carry ill feelings. I wait with her as she eats, the pipes creaking as lukewarm water passes through it from the boiler. The sound puts my teeth on edge and I look to the door periodically, awaiting my chance to escape this prison of despair.

Finally, when she is finished eating, I take the plate and tuck the thin sheets around her, brushing away the stray crumbs and asking her to get some rest. Her hand rests on my cheek for a few moments, her eyes lit up with the kind of affection only a mothers heart can give. It's like a punch to the gut and I have to swallow past the lump in my throat as I press my lips to her forehead and make a hasty retreat from the room.

Once out, I dump the dirty plate in the sink with shaking fingers and lock myself in the living room where I finally let the tears spill over. I'm not sure for how long I wept, and I must have passed out at some point, because the next thing I know I'm waking up with my face pressed into the rough carpet, my mouth dry and head pounding. I glance up at the clock above the living room door which swam confusingly for a few moments before settling into a comprehensible image. Nine-Thirty. The time means nothing to me for a few moments, then the sudden remembrance of what must be done shatters my calm resolve. Not long now then. I drag myself into sitting position and brush a few stray hairs from my eyes. Mum needs food. She should have eaten hours ago. I stay sitting for a few moments, attempting to calm my racing heart to no avail, and haul myself towards the kitchen.

Our kitchen is small, almost claustrophobic in its size, the linoleum that covers the tiles beneath warped in places from the water that drips down from the ceiling. The cupboard doors are mismatched, but clean, and instead of looking scruffy, it gives the place a unique, quirky air. Opening one, I reach inside and pull out a jar of sauce before reaching into the cupboard beneath and grabbing two small pans. Oddly enough, food has never really been something we've struggled for as a family, the realisation causes a small frown to tug at my lips as I twist the cap off the jar with a satisfying pop, pouring the sauce into the pan and setting it atop the stove. We've actually been pretty fortunate in that respect. Never hungry, just always sick. The hob crackles to life as I poke at the buttons and dials lined around the stovetop, emptying a handful of pasta into the other pan and pouring on the boiling water. The next few minutes pass in a comfortable near silence, the only sounds being the ticking of the clock and the gentle hiss and bubble of food as it cooks. The air is filled with the warm tang of tomato and basil which only intensifies as I transfer the food to a bowl, jabbing a fork into it and padding into my mother's bedroom.

She's fast asleep, and I feel a little guilty as I lay my hand on her shoulder and gently shake her awake. It's the most peaceful I've seen her in months, and my heart is slowly filled with lead as I watch her struggle upright and rub sleep from her eyes.

"What time's it?" She yawns, my back already turned as I pick up the chipped bowl and gently set it down on her lap

"Dinner time." I offer lamely, "I've got to go out for a bit, we need shopping." Not a complete lie, I can pick up a few things coming back, but still guilt gnaw at me as I move back to the door. She's weak, but refuses to let me feed her, I've long given up offering. As much as my eagerness to leave pains me, staying and witnessing her deterioration hurts more.

"Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me." I mumble as I duck out of the room.

Stuffing my feet into some trainers, I jog back into the kitchen, craning my neck to see the clock. 10 o'clock. It'll take half hour or so to make it to the clinic without being seen.

The front door clicks softly behind me, and I can't help but run my fingers fondly over the peeling paint. It used to be a vibrant lime green, but time has since worn it to an odd shade, none too dissimilar to that of mushy peas.

The air out here has a metallic tang, with an underlying hint of diesel. The floor is sticky underfoot, making it difficult to run swiftly down three flights of stairs soundlessly. Instead, the smacking sound of my rubber soles echoes around me as I spiral down to ground level. Once by the double doors, I pause, my hand resting on the cool metal, as I strain my ears to make sure no-one was following me. And to pluck up the courage to step outside the safety of the apartment complex. As soon as my feet hit that asphalt, there'll be no turning back. I draw in a breath and twist, using my back to propel the doors outwards. The cool night air hits my face and I immediately break into a jog, sticking to the shadows like a leech. My trainers crunch softly over the uneven ground and I lighten my pace as I wind deeper into the city, my footfalls becoming silent as each breath hisses gently between my teeth.

The streetlights offer a wide cone of amber light where prostitutes and other riff raff consort to do their business under the watchful gaze of the moon.

I give them a wide berth as I head past them, my pulse hammering in my ears. The last thing I need is trouble from the street life which would, of course, draw watchmen to the scene like a moth drawn to a candle flame.

Watchmen are, in simple terms, MEDEX's law enforcement officers. Clad in a simple black and white suit, with booted feet, I'd often wondered how they succeeded in catching so many law breakers without tearing their trousers. In terms of practicality, they couldn't be very comfortable, and I'd have imagined them to be incredibly restrictive. Despite this however, they could move faster than even the swiftest of crooks. They were mercilessly cruel, and offered no leniency to even the pettiest of crimes. I suppress a shudder at the thought of the consequences if I get caught as I continue to dig deeper and deeper into the maze that is London streets.

The Clinic is a huge, cylindrical structure that at first glance appears to be made up of thousands of pieces of glass. In the daytime the glass is crystal clear, and if you look up, from ground level, you can see the many, many doctors scurrying above you like ants. Its bright and airy atmosphere combined with its sleek and modern design causes it to stick out like a sore thumb among the stone chipped flats in the area. Now however, at this time of night, instead of being the inviting building it was of a daytime, it was cold, dark and somewhat imposing. Looking up at the darkened windows, I'm actually fearful. The glass, I know, is reinforced. You could drive a tank into it and it wouldn't break. It was also pressure and heat sensitive, meaning scaling the building would be an impossibility. I exhale slowly as panic begins to set in, glancing at the cracked watch face on my wrist, I squinting down at the hands. It was 10:56. Meaning in four minutes the tannoys will blare out across the city for the eleven o'clock curfew. It runs for 3 minutes exactly, and the fingermen do a customary sweep of the area promptly afterwards. If I haven't found a way in by then, I'm done for. A car rumbles past, its headlights a dull amber glow and I cling to the shadows, my heart hammering in my ears as my mouth goes dry. I make my way swiftly around the building, avoiding the conveniently situated double doors set into the side of the building. This was likely there for deliveries and only a fool would attempt to force those doors open. MEDEX is a multi billion pound company and if someone was to even begin to think they would have such shoddy security would be very stupid indeed.

I keep moving, and abruptly find myself at a dead end. The brick wall is too high to climb and a quick glance at my watch tells me I wouldn't have the time to scale it and find an entrance anyway. Swearing under my breath, I double back on myself and search desperately for anything I could possibly use as an entrance. Sweat trickles its way down my back as I strain to see, and then, almost as if God himself heard my prayers, I see it. An air vent set just out of my reach. That doesn't stop me from reaching up on tiptoes to try and reach it though. My fingertips just brush the cool metal and I swear I feel it move. But I can't be sure. Desperately, I look around me for anything I could use just to boost me up high enough to be certain. I spot a sturdy looking wooden crate in the alley and drag it over. In the dim light I can just make out the faded red lettering of the MEDEX logo, a white caduceus as its backdrop. I haul myself atop it and glance at my watch; 10:59. A minute til curfew. A stray hair hangs in my face and I brush it back as I grip the edge of the air vent and lift it up easily. My surprise was quickly disregarded as pure luck and I grip the edge and hoist myself up, throwing my torso inside the vent with a muffled thump, wriggling the rest of the way in, the vent clanging shut just as the tannoys begin their four minute broadcast, shielding the sound.

The vent is narrow, the cool metal uncomfortable on the bare flesh of my arms. Hurriedly, I crawl through the vents, all too conscious that time is not on my side. I pass numerous vent openings, but a quick glance through the slats tell me that they aren't the rooms I'm looking for. Forcing down my rising anxiety, I push forward, my breaths coming quickly as I drag myself the last few feet to the next vent, from which emits an odd red glow. Peering through it, I can just about make out an exam room, the floor criss crossed with red lights. An examining table is set in the middle of the room, a trolley standing idly by it's side, the silver instruments on its surface glinting dangerously in the dim glow. On the right side of the room are the sinks, multiple drawers beneath them. Cabinets fill half the wall above the sinks and I pull the vent inward, dangling my legs over the side to look up at the ceiling which is crossed with metal support beams. The drop to the floor is steep. 20 foot at least. But if I can make it across the room to the cabinets...

I shuffle forward so I'm leaning out of the vent, then, without a second thought, I throw myself forwards, hands outstretched for the nearest support beam. For a moment, time stops and I find myself suspended in mid air, the lasers below glare up at me and for a sickening moment I'm sure I'm going to fall. I've misjudged the leap, this is it. Mum won't get the medicine she needs and I'll be found within 5 minutes of the fall, dead if I'm lucky. My fingers touch cold metal and I grab on reflexively, a startled gasp leaving my lips as I dangle safely above the light below. Exhaling slowly, I look back up at the beams, the next one is easily within reach and I grab it, swinging from one bar to the next fluidly. Oddly, I'm reminded of the monkey bars at school, except this time, if I fall, the injuries won't just be a scraped knee and some cuts and bruises. By the time I'm suspended safely above the counter, my hands are clammy and my hair is damp with sweat. I hang, staring down past my feet at the drop. It's not that far really, I can do it. My arms scream in protest as I continue to hang immobile, and finally I let go. I squeeze my eyes shut as my feet slam into the counter, the impact jolting my entire body. For a moment I crouch, stunned then a hysterical laugh bursts forth from my chest and I exhale shakily, weak with relief. I did it!

Triumphant, I get to my knees and reach for a cabinet handle. Just as my fingers close around it, the door explodes inwards as armed Watchmen swarm into the room. I barely have time to register my shock before I'm dragged roughly from the counter and thrown to the floor. The pain of the fall makes white stars dance in my vision before I'm dragged upright, warm breath skitters across my skin and I realize he's speaking, "-rights have been denied under section 14c of the MEDEX act 2027. Do you understand Mr Novak?" At which point I realize what's happening and with a defiant yell I slam a fist into the nearest man's face. I hear the cartilage crunch under my hand and his blood is warm on my knuckles. He didn't even cry out, instead, he swept his elbow upward into my jaw. I hear my teeth crash together and groan in pain. I'm quickly restrained and I feel icy metal close around my wrists, I struggle desperately and the last thing I recall is the bright light behind my eyes as the officer on the right slams the butt of his rifle into my temple. After that, everything went black.


End file.
